John Fletcher: Verses about Music

LAY a garland on my herse
   Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
   Say, I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm
   From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
   Lightly, gentle earth!

Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain-tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing:
To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.

Everything that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart
Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.

DRINK to-day, and drown all sorrow,
You shall perhaps not do it tomorrow.
Best, while you have it, use your breath;
There is no drinking after death.

Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit;
There is no cure 'gainst age but it.
It helps the headache, cough, and tisic,
And is for all diseases physic.

Then let us swill, boys, for our health;
Who drinks well, loves the commmonwealth.
And he that will to bed go sober,
Falls with the leaf still in October.

CYNTHIA, to thy power and thee
   We obey.
Joy to this great company!
   And no day
Come to steal this night away
   Till the rites of love are ended,
And the lusty bridegroom say,
   Welcome, light, of all befriended!

Pace out, you watery powers below;
   Let your feet,
Like the galleys when they row,
   Even beat;
Let your unknown measures, set
   To the still winds, tell to all
That gods are come, immortal, great,
   To honour this great nuptial!